Like Shooting Booze in a Barrel
by Radioactive Nerd
Summary: A filler scene for Episode 1 of Back to the Future: the Game.


**Disclaimer: _Back to the Future _is a title owned by Universal Studios, of which has no connection or involvement with the following story. Equal or more credit (and copyright) goes to Telltale Games. More specific credits goes to Bob Gale, Robert Zemeckis, Andy Hartzell, and Mike Stemmle. _Miami Vice _belongs to Anthony Yerkovich and NBC. Job well done everyone. **

**Second Disclaimer: The "canoncity" of the 2010 video game for _Back to the Future _is up for grabs. Its authenticity is very convincing, but you can believe what you want to believe and I'll ****believe what I want to believe. **

* * *

Hill Valley, California

June 13, 1931

6:56 PM

They thought they had it all figured out. The subpoena had to be delivered and the alcohol had to be retrieved. It would be easy enough if it was 1986 or even 1955. If Marty McFly ever told his girlfriend about this, she wouldn't have believed the whole escapade it took to get those two items done. Not that Marty had thought finding a bottle of booze in a sober country or serving a subpoena to his own granddad would be simple. Time travel was not simple. Ever.

It took a tape recorder, a fateful dog, a funky doorstop, a lead pipe, soup deliveries, the Laws of Motion, a spiffy hat, recipe recommendations, politeness, and a fellow teenager ass deep in denial to cross those two things off the list. As Marty had been racing back and forth Courthouse Square, he had been thinking that Doc… Emmett's rocket drill would fix everything. All he needed was that one prototype to save the Doc. There. Done.

He, nor Emmett, had not planned on battling gin hobos away from a soup that wasn't a soup all while a dysfunctional party was going on. But hey, wasn't that one of the things that made time traveling so great?

Of course, Marty was not really worried about the "soup" while they walked up to the Brown estate. They had got it out of the gun powder speckled hands of the gangsters and into the pure clean hands of Edna Strickland. The barrel was probably sitting pretty right on the doorstep.

"… And I was thinking of tweaking the design in the future, so you and I better trade postage addresses…"

He had seen Doc plenty excited; make that extremely excited, over a number of things back home. There was always an invention, a piece of research, or even a Western flick that got the man practically bouncing off the walls. Now he was a little surprised at the rate 1931 Doc was going. A few hours ago, the guy could have been a Strickland. He carried those legalistic papers that probably were as important as a burger's wrapper between the courthouse and the law office. His back was straight. His hair was combed. Those clothes he had on were the dopiest that Marty had ever seen during his entire high school term. In short, Emmett was the Anti-Doc. Convincing him to even _pick up a wrench _had seemed impossible.

"If you put your mind to it, you can accomplish anything."

"Did you say something, Sonny?"

Marty shook his head. "Nah, I was just thinking about something. Hey, when does your dad get home, anyway?"

At the mention of the word father, Emmett's back straightened and he adjusted his shirt collar. "He'll be back at 9:05 to, roughly, 9:20. Granted, I'm including his usual Saturday stop at the tobacconist and if he somehow randomly decides to double-back to the office to make sure I got those forms signed in triplicate and not duplicate."

"Jeez," Marty said.

"Huh?" Emmett stopped walking. They were right in the front yard. "Look, I'm not proud of it but a scientist must do what a scientist must do."

"Yeah, I understand that," Marty began, "but why all the behind-the-curtain stuff? I know your dad wants you to hold one of those… err, hammer things one day, but it won't kill him to know you want to be a scientist instead."

Never before had Marty seen that much seriousness in a kid's face. Emmett returned to being Anti-Doc. He began to walk to the front door. When he talked, it felt like Doc had left out way too much when he told Marty that he and his father weren't on the same page.

"Such a device is called a gavel and if it killed him to know my preference, then I would have showed _him_ my rocket drill and not you."

The front door opened before either of them could reach it. Marty half expected to see that British guy he spoke to on the phone standing there. Instead there was a woman. Light came out of that doorway and made the woman look like some commercial silhouette.

"Emmett?" The woman called.

"Yes, mother, I'm here!" Emmett called back and turned to Marty. "I'm not going to discuss anything more that isn't business with you. Come on."

He practically dragged Marty over to the porch.

"Who's your friend, darling?" Mrs. Brown asked. Doc hadn't told Marty anything about his mother. She looked friendly enough. Her hair was gathered up in one of those buns that every girl around her seemed to have, except a few pieces of hair fell above her eyes and by her ears. Marty couldn't help staring. It was rare when you got to see a mother back in time who wasn't hitting on you.

"This is a patent… uh, yes, my new friend, Sonny Crockett." Emmett answered. He nudged Marty in the shoulder and Marty stuck out his hand. Mrs. Brown shook it and smiled at him.

"It's so pleasant to see Emmett with someone of the same age," Mrs. Brown stated and let go of Marty's hand. She moved on to her son and started picking bits of whatever off his sweater vest. "His father has him traipsing around that courthouse so that he spends all his time off from school with people well into their thirties."

Emmett wiped his own sweater clean. "Speaking of pop, mother, he decided to permit the Stay Sober Society to initiate their meeting here."

Marty helped him out. "Yeah, ma'am, because the S.S.S. have no place to meet."

"Oh, yes," Mrs. Brown said. "I've heard of that organization. That Edna Strickland is both a good writer and humanitarian, isn't she Emmett?"

Was it just him, or was Mrs. Brown staring at Emmett in a weird way? Emmett's reaction was even weirder. He looked directly at his shoes and, if the light of the house wasn't fooling, rolled his eyes.

"I surmise so," Emmett responded. "Have they shown up yet?"

Mrs. Brown looked completely delighted with her son's awkward answer. "No, I haven't seen a soul and neither has anyone else. Oops, speak of the devil."

Marty turned around and saw what looked like a bunch of jumping beans far off. As the jumping beans got closer, he wondered just how many drunks there could be in Hill Valley. Back home, he only knew Red and, if alternate realities counted, his mother. There must have been twelve or fourteen people of the S.S.S. That included Miss Edna Strickland.

"Emmett!" Edna shouted, waving her hand. She was holding onto an old, hobbling bum with the other. Marty guessed the barrel of soup was probably in the bag slung over her shoulder.

Emmett walked past Marty after a forceful shove from his mother. He walked as slow as humanly possible and he rubbed the back of his neck, looking every which way. Marty knew that beat all too well and stepped forward to help his friend out. A hand jutted out and grabbed his shoulder like out of a horror movie.

"So, Sonny, were you in Emmett's class?" Mrs. Brown asked in a tone that demanded his immediate attention. Marty had no choice.

"Yes," the seventeen-year-old said. "I'm still finishing up school. Me and Emmett didn't run into each other until today."

He kept his eyes on Emmett. It was a painful sight. The poor kid was stumbling over his words and fidgeting like he was one of the drunks. Marty could feel the ruthless uncomfortable feeling slither across the grass and hit him square in the gut. The hand on his shoulder wouldn't move. How could you help your friend out of an awkward situation when you were stuck in one yourself?

"Are you working at the courthouse, too?" Mrs. Brown still sounded nice, but her grip was getting vise-like.

"No," Marty answered. "I just ran right into him."

Finally, Emmett parted from Edna with a pained and dazed look on his face. Mrs. Brown let go of Marty's shoulder.

"Mother," Emmett began. "Miss Strickland wishes to set up in our living room, if that is agreeable to you."

Mrs. Brown looked over their heads, biting her lip. Marty turned around to get a better look at the Stay Sober Society. They all looked like a complete contradiction to the name. It was like a hobo costume party or dysfunctional family reunion. No woman in her right mind would let these people in a house like the Brown estate. And while Mrs. Brown seemed a little out of order, Marty knew she was still a mother and a suburban one at that.

"Anna just mopped the floors," Mrs. Brown said. She faked a laugh. "You know how nutty she gets when it there's dirt again before the sunrise."

The hand was off his shoulder and back to picking and adjusting Emmett's clothes. Marty could alleviate some stress now.

"Hey, it's a nice night." Marty said. "Why don't we have the meeting out here?"

"Splendid idea!" Edna said from behind them. "Mr. Grayson, please do not do that to my skirt…"

The scientist nudged him in the ribs and pointed to the driveway. On that corner of the lawn were the other co-founders of the Stay Sober Society. They were just walking up and all sharing the weight of a table. They set the table down and the very first thing that was set upon it was a wooden barrel.

"Don't worry," Marty whispered to an already frazzled Emmett. "How much more trouble will it be to get that barrel to your lab?"

0 0 0

The only two female drunks had finished off their duet with a big finale. Applause filled the lawn, coming from rich and poor hands. Marty clapped without much enthusiasm. For the past half hour, both he and Emmett had been trying to sneak that barrel out of there. Emmett had tried offering to take it in the kitchen to open it and pour it into bowls but out walked the cook to be ready to prepare it right there. Marty went around trying to convince the Stay Sober members that the soup was worse than dirt, but all of them didn't care what went into their bodies. Edna sure had her work cut out for her.

One thing was sure: They had to get the whole barrel out of there before it was serving time.

As the sky became darker, Edna suggested getting some sort of lights so the members wouldn't bump into as much things. Mr. Grayson had banged up his knee by walking straight into the table. The barrel had rolled onto the ground and Marty and Emmett both jumped to get it, but ended up knocking into one another while Edna picked it up herself.

"I'm afraid we don't have any lights." Emmett said, rubbing his forehead and glaring at Marty.

"What about that garage over there?" Edna suggested. "We could move the members-"

"No!" Emmett cried and quickly stood up. "I'll just… I'll go see if there is anything lying around. Come on, Sonny."

On the inside, the mansion looked the same as it would twenty-three years later. There was less of a mess and more fancy things. Marty was afraid to touch anything in case some attendant would whack his hand away. He didn't even want to walk across the carpet, but Emmett trudged on it like it was just cardboard. He talked as he walked, but was quieter anyway. These walls probably had a lot of ears.

"I apologize for this turn of events," Emmett went on as they climbed the stairs. "I never pictured my first patent being achieved in such a gamely manner. Have you ever had any assignments like this one?"

"Not many," Marty could honestly say.

"This is my room," Emmett stated as he dug a very old key out of his pocket.

No "Beware!" or "Biohazard" signs? Marty remembered that this was 1931 and his friend had to whisper the word science like he would be arrested on the spot just for mentioning it. So, instead, Marty asked a different question. "Why do you lock your room?"

"I'm a private person," Emmett said as the tumbler clicked. "I make sure to keep it unlocked on the days Anna wants to tidy up. I'm not very meticulous when it comes to household hygienic duties."

"I hate chores too," Marty said, but he had no idea how much this outwardly perfect kid hated it. If he took a couple steps, Marty would have tripped and possibly gotten an internal injury from some scrap lying around. There wasn't much invention stuff as there was in the now (will be) defunct garage. Books were everywhere. Some of them were library books that were thicker than Marty could ever pay attention to and some were open with the pages marked E.L.B over and over. The desk by the window was a bomb zone.

"What if your dad walks in here when it's a mess?" Marty couldn't stop himself from asking.

"Then I tell him I'm working on a project for school," Emmett answered as he bent down to look under the bed. His words were muffled after that, but Marty could still hear him. "If it is summer, then I tell him I'm doing extra credit. 'If it's not for school, then it's a waste.' "

Emmett grunted as he pulled himself out from under the bed. He walked right past Marty. "Does your pop have any sayings like that?"

"Yeah," Marty said. "He used to say, 'Why would you want to do that, son? You're better off without those kinds of headaches.' "

The light in the closet turned on and Emmett was climbing up his shelves. "You received an ace in the hole."

"Not so much," Marty answered. He walked over to the closet and watched Emmett hoist himself up towards the ceiling. "What are you-?"

Something came crashing down before he could finish. Whatever it was became a jumbled improbable mess. Marty kneeled down to pick at it. Were Christmas lights around in the 1930s? Emmett dropped down beside him and answered the silent question.

"A little side project," Emmett said and began to unravel the string of lights. "It's not as interesting as a rocket drill, but still is proving itself useful in such situations."

"No kidding," Marty said. "Listen, I was thinking that the second everyone isn't paying attention, I jump in and snatch the hooch."

"Well…" Emmett shrugged the rig of lights up on his shoulder as they left the room. "We need a little more detail in the plan. Miss Strickland is very keen on serving that soup… Great Scott!"

"What? What?" Marty nearly shouted. In any decade of any century, he just couldn't get used to the Doc's sudden brain storms.

Emmett began walking faster, his free hand pointing every which way as he talked at an incredible speed. "Why didn't I think of this before? Oh, never mind, Sonny, never mind. I've got it! It's all about distraction! Listen here; if the members can be distracted by a bunch of bad musical entertainment, then we won't have to worry about them. You must find a way to distract Miss Strickland-"

"Me?" Marty asked. "Why can't you distract her?"

"Because you have proved you're better with people," Emmett rubbed his forehead. "This is beside the point! Pop can arrive any time soon, mother is going to start asking questions, the grass is getting torn up by its roots, and… and… can we just obtain the hooch already?"

_Easy going kid_, yeah right.

"Okay, everyone, all together now!"

Marty never knew a Strickland could be the life of the party. Edna was standing up on the steps of the porch in front of them. A tambourine was in one hand and she was starting to slap it harder and harder. The members all turned in attention, like some deranged army. They started singing an equally deranged song.

"'We are the Stay Soberites, once lost and now clean! We wiped off the gin, cleaned up the soul, polished the mind, and found our Joel…'"

"Take over, Emmett!" Edna said over the noise. The other co-founders were beating and blowing their own instruments. Marty watched as the tambourine was thrust into Emmett's hands.

"Sonny, why don't you fix the lights by the _refreshments table_?"

Marty didn't need to be told twice. He picked up the lights and headed right for the table. Most of the people here didn't seem like angry drunks in remission. Marty was able to push his way through the wave of people. The cook was still standing by the table, but he was paying attention to the chorus. Marty started stringing the lights along the ground, working his way toward the soup. It was all about acting natural. He knew he may be the second time traveler in history, but he also knew he wasn't the best. It all really depended on how you looked at it. So, naturally, being a time traveler involved stealth and enough episodes of _Miami Vice _had taught him that much. As he got closer, he could see that the barrel had been slightly cracked open. It was getting more cracked open by the second.

"Excuse me!" Marty said. "Sir, what are you doing?"

The barrel was being held tightly in the hands of the man called Grayson. If anything, he looked like a woman. His hair was long, blond, and stringy. He had thin and long fingers which grasped the barrel like a holy object. To him, it proved it was such because Marty could see it by the stain on Mr. Grayson's shirt. Why was it that nothing could ever be easy?

"Oh, what do you want, kid?" Mr. Grayson said all too loudly. He wasn't drunk yet, but he was getting there. "I'm just sampling the soup. Can't a man be trusted alone with any liquid these days?"

"Sure," Marty edged a little closer. "I didn't mean to yell at you. I guess I just wanted first go at that soup. I heard it's… unique in taste."

"Damn right," Mr. Grayson replied and took another sip.

Marty flinched. "Here, let me get you a bowl…"

"I don't need any bowl," the man said and continued his business. "Can't a man do as he pleases for once in this free country?"

"Hey, I can get behind you on that one," Marty began and took a step with each word. "It's just that… the soup is for everyone. We all went through a lot to get that specific barrel. Could you just let me-"

"Soup is soup!" Mr. Grayson pulled the barrel close to his chest. He was holding it like it was something alive that had to be spared. In a sense it was, but Marty wasn't in the position to be philosophical. Time was running out, more so than usual.

"Miss Strickland-"

Marty had been wrong presuming that Hill Valley held no angry drunks. A Nice Place to Live had some dark houses. It didn't have as many as, say, Hell Valley. This was the Great Depression. This was Prohibition. Both times that went hand in hand and when the nation fell deep into the pit of peril. Marty just didn't know how dead wrong he was until his face was nearly re-arranged by a fist that had known too many beer mugs.

"What is going on here?"

The voice was shrill and demanding. It definitely belonged to a member of the Strickland lineage. Marty felt a very clammy hand reach down and pull him up. Emmett was behind him and the tambourine was dangling like a limp fish from his hand. Marty took his hand off his eye. He could see fine, perfectly in fact that the car rolling up the driveway was the color blue.

"Sonny…"

"We still got until he gets out of the car, right?" Marty whispered. "Miss Strickland-"

She was staring Mr. Grayson into a corner. The music had stopped with a little whining noise. Marty was sure that he heard the crickets stop chirping. It wasn't really Judge Brown's car driving up, that made the world stand still. It was that one and only dictatorship the McFly, Brown, and even the Tannen families had known for decades. It could and would last until the end of all time and all humanity.

"_Mister_ Grayson, if you would please settle down and let the music soothe your soul, then you would be less inclined to physical outbursts and public embarrassments such as this. Hand it over."

Ice cold was all Marty could think. He kept his eyes on the barrel. It was still being clutched by Mr. Grayson a little less than before. The other members were staring at him, shaking their heads or nodding in sympathy. There were more eyes looking at that barrel and making the connection that if Grayson was riled up enough that Edna would want to confiscate the soup, there might be something worthwhile at this meeting. Emmett flinched beside him. His hold on Marty's arm almost had the intensity of Mrs. Brown.

When Mr. Grayson took the barrel out from under his arm and held it out, Marty knew what to do.

"Emmett!" Edna cried as Emmett Brown whooshed right between her and Mr. Grayson.

Marty was not the only one that knew what to do apparently. As he watched the most uptight seventeen year old in the world running like a quarterback, trying to keep illegal hooch away from an obsessive journalist, Marty decided that he was the one playing interference and Emmett was in the star lead.

Members were getting antsy and were starting to realize they were being gypped of something. They began to crowd around the co-founders and ask questions about the barrel, the fancy house, and just what was this meeting really about. Edna was the figure head answering these questions in a way that could make a person feel ashamed for just implying them.

"Toss it!" Marty yelled as they passed the car in the driveway. He was running so fast that he only caught a glimpse of it. It was indeed blue and the window was rolled up. If that was Judge Brown, he was too busy staring at the ruckus on the lawn to notice his son running for his life.

Emmett slammed the door behind them. "I… you… them… we need to distill that alcohol and fast."

Doc's taste in décor must have budded in his teen years. This lab looked just like the one back home, minus a couple trinkets. The ping pong table was there, but it hosted a big boiling pot with a little fire pit going under it. There was a tube that led from the pot to other items in the place. All of them looked either totally hand-made or saved from the trash dump. Marty guessed that if your parents weren't backing up your interests, a guy had to make his own chemistry set. Not that anything in here was actually foreign to him, even the chalkboard was there.

Marty walked up to the dusty schematic drawn upon it. "Are you sure this is going to work, Emmett?"

Emmett popped up from below one of the tables. "Don't let the ramshackle nature of my laboratory fool you. If all goes according to plan, we'll soon be in possession of the most powerful rocket fuel known to man!"

"That's great," Marty managed to say. You had to interrupt the Doc in order to get any sort of say in. "How?"

Emmett looked really pleased to finally get someone he could explain this to. "It's very simple. This crank shaft produces a powerful direct current into the electrolysis chamber…"


End file.
